


The Naked Man (works two out of three times, guaranteed)

by phae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint is bad at relationships, F/M, M/M, Sex is not the answer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two times The Naked Man worked and Clint got what he wanted, and the one time it didn't but Clint got something even better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Naked Man (works two out of three times, guaranteed)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlyKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/gifts).



When Clint first overheard a guy at the bar proclaiming that it was guaranteed to work every two times out of three, he scoffed. There was no way just dropping trou in the middle of somebody’s apartment while they were in the other room and then waiting for their return was going to turn that date's frown upside down. So he shook his head at the poor idiots soaking up the advice like over-eager sponges and put it out of his mind. 

 

 

Three months later, Bobbi was all up in his face while they argued about proper pet care for some ungodly reason—they didn’t even _have_ an effing pet—and then she just stopped with a frustrated growl and stormed off down the hall, slamming the bathroom door in her wake. Scrunching his hands in his hair and tugging uselessly, Clint racked his brain for someway to resolve his current predicament.

After a few minutes that resulted in no great ideas, he shucked his sweatpants and tossed his t-shirt across the back of the couch as he passed. He banged on the bathroom door until Bobbi finally ripped it open to tear him a new one, but she paused with her mouth hanging open as soon as she got a good look at him.

They had delicious, slippery shower sex that night, and Clint was smugly proud of the fact that he’d made her come twice before she managed to shoot him off like a rocket with that wicked mouth of hers. Alright, so yeah, it wasn’t even a day later before they were at each other’s throats again, and following the downward trend their relationship had devolved into, they’d called the whole thing off not long afterward, but the fact remained that the Naked Man had accomplished it’s intended goal, stopgap though it may have been.

 

 

 

The thing he fell into with Natasha after the whole mess with Bobbi wasn’t really healthy by any stretch of the imagination. But it wasn’t particularly _unhealthy_ either, so Clint saw no problem with it. Nat, being an actual adult and all, had no difficulty pointing out all the issues in their relationship; the number one being that they were friends first and lovers somewhere much further down the list of priorities, and the fucking had to stop or else their inexplicable friendship would pay the price.

Clint agreed, he wasn’t in denial or anything. His feelings for Natasha registered on a whole other spectrum that didn’t include the romantic kind. Didn’t mean he wasn’t well aware of how sinfully attractive she was and how they worked as seamlessly together under the sheets as they did out on the streets.

So when she told it was time to nip the benefits aspect of their friendship in the bud, he shrugged, kicked his pants off and offered her a saucy wink. “One more for the road?” he asked in his best approximation of a deep, sexy drawl. Nat laughed in his face, but she also pinned him to the wall and made him see stars in all the right ways.

 

 

 

Clint could admit, if only to himself and only when really drunk, that Phil was the best thing to ever happen to him. Not just in terms of their romantic entanglement, but just in general. He was Clint’s handler, his confidante, his best friend, and then his lover. It was a natural kind of progression that Clint never thought to question. And everything about being with Phil felt so damn _right_ that he never really considered what he’d do if something went _wrong_.

But then again, Clint really shouldn’t have been surprised by it; he was the king of fuck-ups in all things interpersonal. It would have been nice to know that the argument that’d stretched over the past week was such a deal-breaker for Phil, but the fact that he didn’t realize it himself probably said a good deal.

Putting their lives on the line was what they _did,_ though. It wasn’t like Clint landing in the hospital after a tussle with the Villain of the Week was something new, and Phil didn’t really have a leg to stand on so far as Clint was concerned ‘cause at least Clint didn’t challenge a fucking god and get stabbed through the chest for all his trouble. But Clint _had_ landed in the hospital, again—nothing major; a concussion, sure, but other than that just scarps and bruises really—and for some reason Phil had positively flipped his lid over it and every time they’d been in the same room with each the past few days they’d done nothing but snipe at one another. And now it all boiled down do a shitty text message that Clint should just delete and forget ever existed, but couldn’t bring himself to: _Come to my apartment around 8. We need to talk._

Clint spent the day on the range, going through scenario after scenario, trying to find some magical answer to solve a problem he didn’t quite understand. By seven, he still had nothing. So he showered then left for Phil’s apartment, letting himself in because Phil wasn’t back yet and hadn't gotten around to changing the lock or the security passcodes. He stripped off his clothes, taking his time to fold them and set them on the coffee table seeing as how he wasn’t in any great rush. Hopefully he could distract Phil from the dumping portion of the evening for a little bit, maybe even put it off until the next morning. He fell onto the couch and draped his limbs as becomingly as he knew how across the cushions and waited for Phil to come home.

Twenty minutes later he was still stretched out, getting twitchy but doing his outmost to at least appear relaxed, when the door opened and Phil stepped through with a bag of groceries in his arms. He let the door close behind him but didn’t move further inside as he stared at Clint. Clint was happy to note to tell-tell signs of want and interest in Phil’s parted mouth and glazed-over eyes, but then his heart sunk as Phil shook himself out of it and moved on to the kitchen.

“Puts your clothes back on,” he called as he unloaded the paper bags. “I refuse to let you distract me with hot monkey sex until we’ve fixed this.”

Something warm and hopeful settled low in Clint’s belly because that didn’t sound much like the opening bars to an easy let-down. He stood slowly and peered into the kitchen. Phil was fluttering around prepping things for dinner, it looked like, pre-heating the oven and laying out ingredients on the counter. And if Clint’s eyes didn’t deceive him, which they never did, Phil was preparing to put together a pizza, one with all of Clint’s favorite toppings, which were meat, meat, and more meat.

In light of such a promising development, Clint slipped into Phil’s bedroom and pulled out a pair of his Cap pajama bottoms and a faded Kinks shirt from his dresser. He padded back out into the living room and then sidled up behind Phil to look over his shoulder as he kneaded the dough. Phil huffed a laugh and pushed Clint back with his hip, turning to grab the bag of flour. He looked at Clint from the corner of his eye, and then turned to check him out full-on. Phil made a gargled sound then abruptly cleared his throat, going back to the dough as color flushed up from his neck to the tips of his cheek bones. “That’s even less fair,” he mumbled.

Clint, a happy bubble building up in his chest, couldn’t help but blurt out, “So we’re not breaking up, right?”

Phil whipped around, a stunned look on his face, and grabbed the sides of Clint’s face with his flour-dusted hands, pulling Clint’s forehead to his. “No, of course not!” he exclaimed. “Shit—I should have worded that stupid text better. I just—” Phil cut himself off to press their lips together firmly. “Never breaking up with you.”

Clint nibbled at Phil’s bottom lip playfully. “Good to know.”

Phil backed up enough to look at Clint properly. “I’m sorry for overreacting at the hospital.”

Clint shrugged and tried to turn his face away, but Phil held him steady. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Phil said fiercely. “I was worried and upset, and it was unfair of me to take that out on you. I didn’t think—” Phil swallowed and pulled Clint back in, moving to wrap his arms around Clint’s shoulders and push his face up against Clint’s neck. “It’s never a good feeling when you get hurt, but I’ve been dealing with that for years. It’s not something I’m likely to ever get over, but I didn’t ever expect it to get _worse_.”

“Babe?” Clint whispered uncertainly, reaching up to run his hand up and down Phil’s back soothingly.

“I know you were relatively okay,” Phil explains, still pressed close to Clint. “But seeing you in medical, even though nothing was really wrong, it was like that time you got captured by those Somali pirates in the middle of our op, but nothing like that at the same time ‘cause—all I could think about was what if I’d lost you? Now I’ve finally got you—” Phil’s voice broke and Clint could feel the warm slide of tears against his neck before Phil blinked them away.

This time it was Clint that pulled Phil’s face up to his, holding him in place so that Phil couldn’t look away. “I will always do everything I can to make it back to you, Phil. Always,” Clint promised, hoping the emotions he laid bare in his expression could get across to Phil just how serious a promise it was.

Phil smiled, slow and wide, and leaned forward to kiss Clint lightly before pulling back. He twisted back around to work at the dough, and the smile began to morph into a grin.

Clint pressed up against his back and looped his arms low on Phil’s waist. “Mm, yes. Pizza. And then sex,” he proclaimed. “Or maybe pizza _and_ sex. Oh! Phil, I’ll be your plate so long as you blow on the cheese first. It’ll be like those fancy-schmancy clubs were the people are the serving trays.”

Phil snorted at his suggestion, but tilted his head back to smack a kiss onto Clint’s cheek. “That’s not a no,” Clint pointed out helpfully.


End file.
